Best False Trail Poems
They say Humpty Dumpty sat on said wall
But was it there, ever at all.
Was it just lies dragging us in
Fake news again, nothing but spin.
Maybe a bluff turning our heads
Hiding something far darker instead.
Just a false trail, without a trace
Leaving us standing, with egg on our face.
In subterfuge I may be a novice,
But is there a connection, with the Oval Office!
Entry for
The mystery of Humpty Dumpty Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Faraz Ajmal
2/7/18
The story could not become stale:
Farouk had pilfered from a mail;
Also, in some shop picked a pail
And, yet, another a huge bale...
When things began to read "Jail"
Farouk had already turned tail
And for waiting ears had his tale:
That he had come to some friends hail,
One of them male and the other female.
Then, a Ben chose to at him rail,
Swearing to lock him up, no bail:
For simply leaning on a bale
And insisting he'd touched a pail,
His guilt linking with his face pale
And this repeating without fail...
So, please, Smart Cops should not me nail,
For this is all about False Trail.
Mind a sure style that seems to know;
Apply and set a clear disguise;
See that you smile in secret glow;
***** greeting gets a quaint surprise;
Use ways and means to hide your plot;
Enjoin vague trace with a false trail;
Reach thick and thin in valiant lot;
Answer your space with hidden tale;
Do attend ploy with charming face;
Expect to be what choice now declares.
Trust sure deploy to mark your place;
Opt to be free to spark grand flair;
You know you can arouse thought grand;
Sense focus spans the rays that trend.
Leon Enriquez
11 June 2014
Singapore
Shadows are but sign posts,
fleeting moment capsules,
brown leaf portent creeper‘s auto-pilot,
tarpaulin-sky mist draped on ancient chapel spire,
worship at the coat tail of a wrinkled orange rind lantern,
oak wood clouds smoulder from their taproot ash to blur the camera shutter,
sonneteer who mines a rock salt crystal,
earthly grain-squeeze imitation pearl,
false trail bard whose basket weave of catalysts hint at lustrous form,
but still we wind-blown minstrels hanker for those dermal layer meters cast ashore.